


The Silence Which Tells No Lies

by lordcyanides



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Existential Angst, M/M, Mentions of Past Torture, Mentions of past abuse, Past Violence, Power Dynamics, Power Play, but manipulation is a dance and mysterio knows how to tango, mephistopheles is a master manipulator, mephistopheles is a tortured soul with daddy issues, mysterio likes to scratch old sores, not establish relationship but some feelings cannot be denied
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2020-05-07 04:21:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19201789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lordcyanides/pseuds/lordcyanides
Summary: You kissed his mouth with mouths of flame: you made the horned god your own:You stood behind him on his throne:you called him by his secret name.Mephistopheles has tried to own Mysterio's spirit many a time, but Mysterio knows how the game is played. Now both are locked in a perpetual power play for all eternity.





	The Silence Which Tells No Lies

When his figure casted its shadow in the room, it is not in some lofty haven-peak, but deep and dark beneath the earth, carved out by the unholy powers of the One who dwells down under. When he enters, there is no light that greets him as above with sparkling radiance, no holy theme plucked from golden lyre. When he trails the labyrinthine halls the only light is his own, and it flickers along the facets of mirrored obsidian, illuminating his steep descent.

And the subterranean rock shifts ahead of him, guiding him through the uninhabited kingdom with raw elation until at least he comes to the innermost chamber. Secret doors tremble and part for him, in awe of the angelic beauty that carried with him such effulgence that night-creatures burn in: such that one yearns only to caress the soft flame of burning aurum, to stare forever into its radiant swelter.

It was such that the darkness of the room surrounded his entry, such that the distant figure who stood waiting in heavy brocade turned and could not tear his black eyes from the entrancing cherubim, incoronated with living flame. So stood they, on opposing sides of the most intimate, most secret chamber in all of the known dimensions, where noone dared to tread and not even the Higher Order could venture: Hell’s very pit, where the swirling and moaning of the Abyss: Darkness Incarnate; a bottomless well which stared back every creature who dared to look in it, just to show them their greatest fears. And there, right behind it, there stood the seats of the only two beings who could bend it to their will…

…the one of which was himself. And the other was the distant figure entombed in darkness which was currently sat unmoved: aloof, puissant but fallen; a profane God made into flesh and Hell’s first inhabitant, forbidden. Yet, from that Darkness came only a sigh, and though naught was spoken between the two a thought was understood in the space of their silence, and it brimmed with barely smothered delight.

“You came…”

“My King.” The Prince of the Abyss lowered his head in respect, as he always did. “You called for me.”

“That I did.”

Mephistopheles’ voice, although low and calm as the waters of the lake Styx, was still impossibly imposing; like a spell… or, better yet, a dangerous poem. “Mysterio, there is something that I want to ask you.”

The demon prince remained expressionless, only a slight shift in the light his eyes casted revealed his surprise by this unusual prologue. Usually the Serpent did not use a prologue at all, He went straight to the matter at hand, especially when He called for him in that urgent fashion at that unorthodox time of day. This had to be something serious, or else why was his King hesitating, what was that expression for? But regardless, he remained motionless and silent, waiting.

“You said many times that you love me more than anything,” Mephistopheles whispered; a hint of emotion in His burning eyes. “Yet you always keep back, you struggle against me when I hold you too tight.” Mephistopheles’ head tilted to one side. “Why do you deny me of my prey, Mysterio?”

Mysterio only blinked, mind drifting away to past memories. His transformation.; opening his eyes for the first time in the ready to hatch coccoon he was wrapped in; the only half demon in existence just mere seconds before he was released to the world he was about to rule. He remembered everything being hazy at one moment, all sounds muffled, all colors blurred…and then everything so clear… so vivid… his new, enhanced senses being bombarded by stimuli, making him dizzy and further extending his confusion…but just before he went into panic… a hand was extended towards him, gently taking his and helping him to his feet. Oh, how could he not recognize that hand which had caused him so much suffering for so long… And yet, in those moments, how tender and soft and warm did it feel, like a father’s… or a lover’s. He remembered his knees giving in underneath him, losing his balance, falling… but these familiar hands wrapped around him, lifted his newborn, lean frame and laid it upon a royal bed… Did he struggle against Him then? Did he struggle when, centuries later, those very hands locked his comatose, barely alive form in a glass coffin the first time he dared to disobey Him and faced the consequences; the power of His wrath? Or did he struggle when those hands were exploring his body in ardor and wanton need; did he struggle when he was lost in the embrace of the King of hell, writhing, all the world fading in the shade of the forbidden amorous desire rippling through him and the intoxicating taste of His kiss burning his tongue? Did he struggle when the Horned God made him His; when His secret name dripped from his lips in sheer ecstasy and the halls echoed with cries of pain and pleasure alike? 

He was indeed held too tight… but the body never complained, not even once.

The spirit, on the other hand…

“Because I am free. Not a slave.” the eloquent reply came.

“You are right, my beloved Prince, you are indeed free…” Mephisto sneered “…but that is exactly why you are lost.”

The hellish King descended from his throne and approached the lean, motionless figure of the half demon, so tiny and fragile compared to His monstrous build. Clawed fingers ran through the beauty’s hair, caressed the flawless face, the pale skin of his neck, the dusting of red at his chin; eyes burning into his. “Never forget you are still a man, Mysterio; partly, but a man no less. Men are made to seek for a power above them, to put their prayers, wishes, hopes and dreams, to ask for its guidance and protection. They are made to seek for a god, and if they do not find one, they create one after their own image, or else they will go mad. Some even have the "Non-God” as their God, think about that…“

Mephistopheles let out a dark chuckle and pulled the silent Prince towards him, His hands firmly fixed upon the young man’s waist and resting the adorned with lava waves of hair head against His broad chest. Leaning in, the Serpent whispered to his ear "Submit to me Mysterio… Surrender to my power, let me in, be my own… say that you choose me to be your god… Speak to me…”

…and yet, despite the hellish King’s mastery of words and temptations, Mysterio chuckled; a sound slightly muffled by the thick fabric of Mephistopheles’ tunic, but melodious like a song of stubborn defiance all the same. 

“Quoting Kafka now, I see… How nice of you. Although I greatly appreciate the attempt, it will get you nowhere, I am afraid.” he mused, a hint of a smile lingering upon voluptuous lips, cypress green eyes caressing abyssmal black ones with a gentle stare. 

“You are not wrong, my King, how could you ever be? ‘Tis true, my nature remains human enough to feel, to dread, to muse, but you cannot deceive me. I have come a long way to know what it means to pass the Gates of Hell, what free will truly is, before I declare it. For how can a man who has prayers, wishes, hopes and dreams to need a god for be truly free? How can anyone who here enters even believe in rationality, humanity or salvation? Have I not read the ominous engravings before I stepped in? Has time and experience, along with the stories of men before me taught me naught? Have I not, because I heeded to that knowledge bending my own nature under my will, thus into madness descended; so far that I cannot even remember how reality felt like before I did?” 

Mysterio’s arms wrapped around the arch-demon’s broad shoulders, fingers diving into the ebony river of His hair and caressing the back of his neck, eyes pleading Him to see, to understand. 

“Look at my reflection upon the Abyss next to yours; I command it like you do…” the Prince’s voice was even softer now, like a summer breeze. “Look at all the wounds I sustained in your hands without a single protest… look at my ruined back, which you ripped apart to let my wings out… I gave my soul to you not because you tricked me to, but because I wanted to, what more token would you want? I am not one of your subjects, but I would still die in your name with the same readiness. Because I chose to. Because I chose you.”

Mephistopheles let out a low growl as a response. Throughout eternity, every mind He touched, every soul he laid His hands onto, every being that faced Him was bound to submit to His might. It was a fact; one He was so used to that it had become almost tedious. How was it that this accursed being, this singularity in all existence always knew what to say?! How was it that he always managed to slip through His fingers like grains of sand and still, make himself even the more desirable thus, as he became even the more unapproachable? This was not a game like the ones He was used to; this was not the cat and the mouse. It was a delicate ballet; Him chasing after the petite, prideful vision of this man, and just the moment he thought he had conquered him, he dissolved like a wraith and His embrace remained empty; His hunger unsatiated.

It was beyond alluring and hurting His own pride at the same time; the feeling was almost unbearable.

Instinctively, His fingers clenched around the roots of magma hair in an iron grip.

“I could make you.” He hissed, basking the stifled gasp of pain He elicited. “I could rip your audacious self from your mind and shove whatever I want in its place.” The demon King’s charred lips formed a sinister smile, just inches from Mysterio’s; His voice low and dangerous. “You would bend the knee before me, then.”

Momentarily the light in the prince’s eyes faded at the threat. Although his huge ego was only to be matched with his flamboyance, he was no fool; it was true that if his King wanted to manipulate him by means of magic, he would never be able to protect himself, even if he were the protector of black magic itself -which he was. But even in the position he was now, he did not struggle against the grip, nor did his tender expression falter.

“Indeed you could.” his melodious voice hummed in agreement. “…but you will not, will you? Because if you force yourself upon me, it would signal your defeat.”

Mephistopheles grunted again, but let him go, and Mysterio stumbled a few steps backwards. Damn, he was right again. So many times He was tempted to do just that, assert His power over him and subdue him to His will, but would that not be an open admittance of His inability to win him over? And even if He did that, the Prince would be just an empty shell; nothing from what made him unique would remain. Would He really want to destroy and dispose of him just because he would not have him bow to His might?

“You do not trust me… right? You fear I will betray you, like you betrayed your own creator if I do not bow to you… Right?” the distinctive hint of melancholy that usually tinted Mysterio’s tone had suddenly become as deep as the gaping chasm of the Abyss in front of their thrones. But the words cut through Mephistopheles like knives, and He hissed again, red eyes sparkling in malice and fury as the anger rose again in His chest. Seething, he reached him again with a single step and gripped the hem of his long black robe, nearly lifting him off the ground.

“Never -you hear me? Never speak of my creator again in front of me.”

His vision turned red for a brief second, visions of Him tearing the audacious redhaired half demon to pieces and silencing him forever filled His mind, yet He refrained at the last moment. He had done this in the past, and it turned out that He was the one who suffered the most in the end, even though He was the one delivering the single blow that put His beloved into a coma for a whole decade. Time was flowing in such a torturously slow rate without him there… and He missed this, he missed him, he missed his defiant stare and soft voice, He missed the way he called him "my King” only because it was an essential part of the etiquette -ah how obsessed he was with that… He missed the sight of silky waves of lava spilling out down slender shoulders, the feeling of them against His fingers. His hands felt so empty during that decade… Never again.

But Mysterio knew what was going on in his King’s mind; he was playing with fire for far too long to know when he was about to get burned. And, instead of squirming to escape he leaned in and shared his oxygen with the mighty Mephistopheles, sealing their lips together. There was no passion in that kiss; not the kind of emotion which proclaims “I desire you”; but the kind which gently nods “I feel you.” Thus, with a silent order, the Abyss wrapped around the two figures like veils of thick mist, preventing even their shadows from bearing witness to his King’s moment of anger.

“You are still in pain… even after so long… Even the mention of him still hurts you…” the demon Prince’s voice a quiet murmur, like the secrets the waters tell to the night sky when mirroring a full moon. Deft fingers traced the outline of the Mighty Abhorred; even in complete darkness Mysterio could see the wrinkles upon the form that His spirit had assumed -the form so many hated and even more feared- getting deeper. Ah, it had taken him so long to understand that even He could feel pain; mayhaps deeper than others… that the sole source of all His malice and cruelty was pain. The half demon’s lips formed a soft, whispered plea.

“Allow me to help you…”

“I am on my own in this, child… I shall not be cured of this curse upon me, for this is who I am. What makes me… me.” was the bitter reply; and suddenly Mephistopheles’ clawed hands were not gripping at Mysterio’s robes. For a brief second and judging just by how heavy they felt, the half demon could swear that his King was leaning on him for stability…or maybe that was just the weariness of His spirit being translated in physical terms. Underneath all that endless demonstration of masks his King presented, He was truly and irrevocably old.

“Oh Mephistopheles… you are mistaken… You have no idea how mistaken you are…” The words came out on their own accord, without Mysterio being able to stop them. “Hatred… pain… that is not what makes you who you are… It is the fact that you, of all the angels, had the courage to speak your mind… express your own opinion against your creator’s… Stand for the freedom of your own will… And in all your innocence, you, of all the angels committed the hybris to believe you can be something better than He thought. That is who you are… That is what caused your fall.”

All that Mephistopheles did was stare at his Prince. That is what he thinks… But was He any better than his own creator, after all? Was He not constantly trying to lure the beauty in his arms to abandon his own free will and bend to His, much like He did? And was Mysterio not constantly resisting, much like He did, in his stead?

“It seems we two are not that different, after all…” He murmured.

“No, my King…” the quiet whisper replied. “I am nothing like you.“

"How so?”

“I might be shaped after your own image, but I am myself. And unlike your creator, you like it thus… You like that I am not you.”

“Mysterio…“ Mephisto sighed. "Oh Mysterio… Why must we always come to this? Why must you be like that…”

A complaint or a praise? Who could tell? ‘Tis not too late, a small voice spoke in Mephistopheles’ mind. 'Tis not too late for a final attempt…for today, at least…

“I just wish to make it all simpler for both of- ”

“You do not have to.” Mysterio cut Him off in the same quiet fashion. “You do not have to.”

The silence that followed was electric and tangible; as if it was alive and had a spirit of its own, gently wrapping itself around the two demons; its gentle voice telling no lies… The Prince of the Abyss slowly averted his stare from the scalding orbs of his King and broke their embrace, turning away, towards the bottomless pit on which only them held power.

Still at his side and eyes firmly fixed upon the gaping void, the delicate, pale fingers of the half demon laced with His.

…and in silence, the King and the Prince of the Abyss gazed at their reflection upon the spinning, moaning Darkness.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to share your opinions on this piece! Let me know if you want more.


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